On the banks of Pondicherry beach, bard watches the waves hitting the rocky bank. Not every waves has energy; not every rise is powerful; not every hit is thundering; There are quiet patches in between the two thuds. There is a build up, that is interspersed with some light and some bold strikes of energy. Far beyond, the look is still serene, while the edge is turbulent.
My last birth was as a Tamil; singing the grand legacy of Dravidian songs, with might red soil and blue waters of the sea as a company. The reflective glances of the youth; method and simplicity of the experienced, grace and perseverance of the feminine power all are embedded in me. I nurtured the Aryan culture and saved it from extinction from the up north.
At Aurobindo Ashram, there is an aura of nothing ness. There is more serenity in the flowers on the Samadhi then the person begone. At least that is what the picture presented to me. No messages for commoners, only the learned, rather highly learned can dare to launch on to Aurobindo. For others, that is only an image of a seer and not the seer himself.
What can divide humanity more then having a ‘black town’ and ‘white town’ in India (erstwhile Pondicherry). Red caps of the police men are an oddity. Red is a scarlet red almost; does not come from the Indian palette. White man divides, brown man unites, and the black remain enslaved in the warps of time. ‘There should be no religion’, shouts the board in Aurovile; in the land of great Shankara who saw the unity in diverse existence (Advait). Such contrasts are possible in the land of the sublime; the land of essential; the land of eternal and the land of possible. Salutes to the spirit of India!
When the peace dawns, let me be meditating in the open sea stretches of southern tip. South is the east of India.